'oh shit! we should call you ransom and holster! sick name for a d-men pair.' it only takes a second to register the look in your eyes and i return it with my own; it’s perfect. we’re perfect. i know it’s for real when you apply for a room change and practically live in my dorm anyway when you’re denied. 'bro,' you say one day, your fingertips coming up to rest on my cheek while you look me in the eyes. 'bro,' i say back, my other hand seeking out yours and lacing our fingers. we don’t have to say anything; we know. it’s beautiful. we’re beautiful. of course-- sometimes (most times) i still wake up gasping for breath and i swear there’s smoke in my lungs and i reach to your side of the bed to make sure you’re there just as my brain reminds me you’re not. the sheets are cold compared to the heat of my nightmares and all i want is to curl up in your arms and weep. i fall asleep imagining that you are the one whispering 'it’s okay' over and over while the flames that took you lick back into my subconscious. and then-- the first time we meet is on the ice, you with the aces and me with the falconers, and when you catch my eye, grin and nod before the game, electricity zaps up my spine. alexei is a great d-man but i can’t help but wonder how it might be for you and i to play for the same team (there’s a metaphor in there, i think, but i’m too busy getting checked into the boards hard enough to see stars to think about it). after the game (we win; it was a charity match, and no one is too torn up) you find me before i go to my hotel for the night and tater stays back with me, looking at you distrustfully. 'you went to samwell, right? i remember playing against you and zimmermann in the frozen four.' you smile and it feels like someone’s punched all the air from my chest. 'i almost went to samwell too, you know.' 'yeah?' is all i can manage, but that’s okay because you’re already pushing on. 'yeah, i mean, the whole one in four, maybe more thing is pretty inviting.' it’s my turn to smile, and i wonder if i affect you the same way you do me. after that-- starting a new high school in a new country partway through your senior year is scary enough without also adding in the fact of being black and bi and trans and an activist. that morning, eyes heavy with sleep and brain forgetting my anxieties it had seemed like a great idea to wear my pride pins on my bag and my black lives matter shirt, had seemed like a statement, but now i’m surrounded by white teens who give me a wide berth and distrustful eyes and my heart is in my throat. my third class is social studies and i was never one for dramatics but seeing you in the back of the class smiling and talking and laughing in a shirt that says “make racists afraid again” and your bi pride bracelet is like taking a drink after being stranded in a desert. the knot in my stomach starts to unravel and i can breathe again; at least until you catch sight of me, and your smile is so blinding that i nearly stumble when you beckon me toward your group of friends. 'adam.' you’re still smiling. 'justin,' i say back, and your hand feels warm and safe when we shake. you keep talking about how your break had been, how pissed people had been when you said happy hanukkah instead of merry christmas, and the space you make for me in your circle of friends feels so natural i almost forget what worry feels like. next time-- bits and pieces is one of providence’s most successful businesses-- one part because of the food, one part because of the host of professional nhl players who worked or stopped by in their free time, and one part because the bakery is loudly and proudly an lgbt safe space. the cafe was quiet, which was normal for this time of day; a few patrons were scattered around at tables, the tv up in the corner on a news station replaying the highlights from the falconers’ winning game the night before. in about an hour bitty will close the bakery for the next few, because the falconers will be coming home with their new teammate and bitty will want them to all get to know each other before the masses descend on the establishment. 'so, justin,' you say later, leaning against the counter while i make your drink. you’re adam birkholtz, tater’s new d-man, and angels sing when you say my name. 'you gonna write your number on that cup for me, bro, or do i gotta make you a drink instead?' shitty whoops from behind us and the tips of your ears go red, and the effort for you to keep looking calm and collected is adorable. 'nah, brah, i’m classy.' on impulse i grab your hand and scribble my number across the back, glancing up to meet your eyes and grin. 'fuckin high school romance this shit up, birkholtz.' finally-- every life with you flashes behind my eyes when they’re closed and i’m so desperate to find you that it hurts. 'you remember your soulmate once you start puberty,' my parents had said. 'you’ll remember the lives you spent with them; it can be disorienting, so we’ll keep an eye on you. don't worry.' it was only one or two, usually, i knew; it was rare to find your soulmate often in past lives. puberty came and the memories of us left me bedridden for a week; not one life, not two, but hundreds, each memory overwhelming and leaving my heart aching more for you than the last. i try to convince myself that my choice to go to samwell had nothing to do with you, that i just liked the lgbt aspect of it, that it was familiar because so many of my lives had been here, but i knew it was a lie. i was hoping that i’d see you there again, that i’d finally find you after years of pining. you’re not in the locker room or on the ice at the start of practice, and i ignore the ache in my chest, ignore the disappointment, ignore-- 'ransom?' i don’t have to look, i just know, and in the next second my arms are around you and you’re laughing and i’m grinning and saying 'holster, god, i-- holster' and shitty’s skating by in the background: 'oh shit! ransom and holster! sick name for a d-men pair.' it’s perfect. we’re perfect.
soulmates have to be real or you wouldn’t feel this familiar every time